7. Make No Promises
Make No Promises
Daybreak in Elsewhere is disconcerting. There’s no sun to rise; rather the entire sky slowly lightens. As dawn creeps into the cottage, revealing every mismatched scrap of fabric, Nevander sits by his sleeping prince and meditates.
Shielding isn’t a conscious practice outside of combat, when an enemy might reach for his mind. It’s instinct. Habit. But Calithel’s talent is empathy. Nevander must secure his spirit so he doesn’t harm his charge.
Or reveal too much of himself.
Light gilds Calithel’s sleeping face. The neckline of his shirt falls open, and the silvery scar is a rebuke.
No, not Calithel. Nevander’s prince wants to be called Seren, and that’s easy to remember with his light brown hair and rounded ears.
Seren isn’t the figment of a prince living in Nevander’s imagination.
He isn’t a child to shadow or a leader to obey.
He’s a stranger curled up on a sofa, cheek squished against the woven cushions.
Still Nevander’s to protect. This was supposed to be the easy part. He never expected the responsibility to feel so insurmountable.
Calithel’s—Seren’s nose wrinkles, and his breath lightens.
Fascination almost holds Nevander in place, but he silently moves to the window.
Then the door, surveying the little room for the dozenth time.
No danger from the hearth with its dancing squirrel statuettes.
Nor the yard, where the mushroom circle’s nocturnal glow has faded.
Each small movement echoes. The couch cushions shift. A breath hitches. “Gods’ mercy, this was real,” Seren mutters. He even swears like a human.
Nevander takes the words as an excuse to turn. “Do you believe in them?”
Seren rubs his eyes. “In who?”
“The human gods.”
Seren stares blankly, then reaches for his boots. “No, it’s just a thing to say when you stub your toe, or you’ve been abducted by the fae.”
“That’s good,” Nevander says, which wins him another blank stare.
“Why is that good?”
A royal heir beholden to human myths would be a scandal. But more than that… “There are no human chapels in Elladar. The faith would prove lonely.”
Seren finishes lacing his boots. Despite his rumpled clothes and shadowed eyes, he looks sharper, less shocked, than the night before. “That's a heavy conversation before breakfast. Do you have a comb?”
Nevander pulls his wooden comb from the carryhold. “Here.”
Seren barely hesitates before taking it. “So, your hair doesn’t stay magically perfect. That’s from your carryhold, right?”
Their fingers don’t touch, which is appropriate. And the compliment sounds like courtly flattery. Nothing personal. Seren is still wary of Nevander, and that shouldn’t hurt. That’s just reasonable.
“Well remembered,” Nevander says. “I’ll get you one in Elladar. Are you hungry?”
Seren’s gaze darts tellingly towards the table, but he says, “Could you teach me that shielding thing first?”
He’s persistent. But that’s a good place to start.
“We can do both at once,” Nevander says.
Sitting at the kitchen table is familiar and strange at once. Nevander spent years of his youth wandering Spiritwood with Yarrow and Valerian. They spent many meals at Yarrow’s mother’s table. Not this table, and not this cottage, but so similar.
Taking food without the roof-owner’s permission feels criminal. Elsewhere doesn’t work quite like Summer, and the taboos are different. Here, Yarrow’s permission is enough, and his mother would certainly be glad to share. From the safe green cupboard, not the dubious yellow cupboard.
The food is fresh, but the meal is inadequate.
The fault is Nevander’s. Cold porridge, with berries from the cold-charmed shelf.
Nevander isn’t a cook by trade or practice, and he eats at the palace most days.
That’s fine. He isn’t here to impress Seren with his cooking.
He just needs to feed his charge, especially after the stressful night, and—
“This is beautiful,” Seren says, spoon hovering over the bowl, eyes wide with what looks like unfeigned delight. “What other skills are you hiding?” He looks up, then away. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, I know you’re just…”
A simple compliment shouldn’t fluster Nevander, so he remains composed. “You should wield both apologies and flattery more carefully in Elladar. Show no weakness and make no promises.”
Seren’s delight fades. “Maybe it’s better to never say anything.”
“Silence has weight, too,” Nevander adds, though he wishes he didn’t have to dampen Seren’s mood with warnings.
He doesn’t mean to make Elladar sound so dire—but Seren is filtering everything through a human lens.
“You may have more talent for courtly conversation than you expect. You’ve always been bound to the truth, even if you didn’t know why. ”
Seren takes that in, not as reluctant as the night before. “I just thought other people could lie past the nausea.” He takes a bite of the porridge. “Oh, this is delicious.”
He’s only saying that because he doesn’t know better. But Nevander can’t help feeling relieved.
“So how do I stop feeling everything?” Seren asks between bites.
Nevander spent some of his sleepless hours contemplating this task. He’s no more a teacher than he is a cook, but dragging Seren to Elladar without a shield is too dangerous. Thankfully he has Haelwen’s blessing to take his time.
“You need to recognize your magic before you can use it.” Nevander draws on his own earliest lessons.
His mother taught him to guide instinct with intention, before defining power with theory.
“Magic is an inherent part of you, like your lungs. You breathe on reflex. But if you choose, you can hold your breath, or exhale on purpose. If you inhale smoke or cold air, you can feel that.”
“I can’t hold my breath forever, though,” Seren points out. He’s a clever learner. That will help.
“Don’t cling to the metaphor.” Nevander pauses. He’s done too much talking, not enough asking. “Is your empathy in use all the time?”
Seren’s hand tightens on the spoon. “I don’t use it.
It just happens. Whenever I’m near someone, if they’re thinking about me, I can feel if they like me or hate me or feel amused by me.
It’s worse if the emotion is stronger.” Seren looks away, like he’s revealed too much.
“You’re the first person in years I’ve felt nothing from. ”
Nevander can’t tell if that last is a good or bad thing. It’s good from Nevander’s perspective. He prefers to keep his emotions under control.
“It may not be conscious, but you do use magic every time you sense someone’s emotions,” Nevander says. “You can train your magic to lie dormant and protective as its resting state. Then you’ll only use it on purpose.”
“I don’t want to use it at all,” Seren says quickly.
“That may be true for now.” Nevander continues before sinking into an argument. He can think of hundreds of uses for the Summer Prince’s empathy. “Hold one of the berries in your mouth, and think about the difference between the berry and yourself.”
Seren’s resistance breaks. No need for empathy magic to feel his incredulity. “I don’t understand,” he says, which is very polite.
“Distinguish between the berry’s flavor and your experience of the flavor.” Nevander would rather not rely so heavily on metaphors, but he isn’t used to explaining magic. “When we meet with Yarrow and Folly, you can practice distinguishing between their emotions and your reaction.”
Still skeptical, Seren plucks a berry. “I’ll try. What kind of berry is this?”
The plump berry gleams a delicate orange pink. Like the first breath of dawn. Perhaps there’s no meaning to Seren choosing this instead of the blueberries or strawberries. Or perhaps Nevander is as weak to omens as any fae.
“A summerberry,” Nevander says. “From the summerstar tree.”
Seren presses it between his lips. A drop of juice clings to his thumb until he licks it away. His eyes close with the sweetness, and for a moment, Nevander imagines he can see past Seren’s glamour to the truth of the young prince.
Human guise or no, Seren is beautiful. The realization is disconcerting. Nevander will have to guard him closely against a hungry court.
“I’d like to remain for three more days,” Nevander says. “I need time to prepare Seren.”
Yarrow nods, unusually thoughtful. He’s even wearing a shirt this morning, though it’s unbuttoned to his navel.
They stand beneath the great central tree. Moments ago, Folly pulled Seren away to sit on a bench-like root, where they now confer out of earshot.
The distance puts Nevander on edge. As if Seren might slip away to be lost again to a foreign realm.
But speaking with a familiar face will do Seren good, both to acclimate him to his role and to practice his magic.
Nevander told him to heed the differences between others’ emotions and his reactions.
To search for the sensation of his own magic pulling those emotions in.
Seren won’t be able to stop the magic if he can’t feel it working.
“Just three days?” Yarrow asks, skeptical.
Nevander shares his doubts. “That’s as long as I dare.”
“A year wouldn’t be enough, but perhaps a day would be too long.” Yarrow snorts. “I should ask a favor in exchange.”
“You should,” Nevander agrees.
Yarrow never liked bargaining. That’s the wild fae in him. Just like the brashness of his next question. “He’s the next Summer King, isn’t he?”
Nevander can’t share the queen’s illness with outsiders, even if that outsider is a friend. “Not for many years, I hope.”
“I hope so, too.” Yarrow turns, regarding Folly and Seren. “Still. It’s not a bad thing to do the Summer Prince a kindness.”
“Any favor is owed by me, not him,” Nevander snaps, cold.
Yarrow flinches back, then chuckles. “Fear not. Your prince owes me nothing. There’s no harm if he remembers me as a friendly, helpful wild fae, is there?”
Nevander’s anger is slow to quell. Though the words ‘your prince’ are reassuring. “You’ve grown wiser.”
“I have a realm to rule, and a lifebond keeping me humble.” Yarrow grimaces ruefully, then adds, “Well, as humble as possible.”
“At least you haven’t learned to lie.”
“Speaking of helpful wild fae, you should buy your prince some court clothes.” Yarrow peers up, as if checking the sun’s position. A habit yet unlearned. “Hummingbird should be awake soon.”
Nevander is familiar with Elsewhere’s seamstress—and her penchant for scandalous clothing. More substantial garments would be more appropriate for Seren. Court fae will covet him regardless, but Nevander doesn’t have to make it easy on them.
Especially if Seren is still learning to deflect unwanted emotions.
“Is there a chill, or is that just your face?” Yarrow asks. “We’re just standing here. What are you mad about now?”
Fortunately, Nevander doesn’t have to dodge that question. Seren and Folly are walking back from the tree root, and Seren is laughing.
Such an ordinary sound shouldn’t strike Nevander so. Nor should it be so rare. Seren’s current smile only illustrates how tense and scared he’s been these past few days. Yet Nevander’s also relieved Seren can laugh at all, not one day after being whisked from Prima.
The young prince is resilient. He isn’t ready yet, but with three days’ practice, perhaps they’ll get closer than expected.
“We should visit Hummingbird,” Folly says, his mismatched eyes bright.
Yarrow beams down at his lifebond. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
Nevander moves to Seren’s side and asks quietly, “How was it?”
Seren’s smile is even more startling up close. “I can almost feel the magic, like you said. I just have to stop avoiding it. By the end, I was—”
Seren clutches his chest, curling in on himself.
“Calithel,” Nevander says, unthinking. His sword appears by instinct in his right hand. “Your Highness.”
Then a cold, fragile wind steals through Nevander’s spirit. Like a breath of Autumn. At the same time, Yarrow swears. Cries break from distant tents.
“Are you hurt?” Nevander asks urgently, lifting Seren’s chin.
And so he witnesses the glamour’s crumbling.
Like clouds vanishing to reveal stars, the false gives way to the true. Sharp cheekbones shimmer in Elsewhere’s strange light. Blond-brown hair deepens to a shadowed blue, and rounded ears lengthen into points.
Seren’s eyes blink from blue to brilliant gold. Realization strikes Nevander like a sword to the stomach.
“What’s happening?” Seren whispers, his fear painful.
Nevander would give anything to shield Seren from this. “The changeling spell is broken. Which means Queen Haelwen is dead.”